


A Walk in the World

by seedee



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Character of Color, Friendship, M/M, Romance, travelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-09
Updated: 2009-12-09
Packaged: 2017-10-04 07:13:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seedee/pseuds/seedee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a perfect world, no one gets sick, you keep the girl, and wait for your best mate to come home. In Seamus's world, things work differently.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Walk in the World

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://wook77.livejournal.com/profile)[**wook77**](http://wook77.livejournal.com/) and [](http://community.livejournal.com/hp_springsmut/profile)[**hp_springsmut**](http://community.livejournal.com/hp_springsmut/). Thanks for the help and encouragement of [](http://thimble-kiss.livejournal.com/profile)[**Roz**](http://thimble-kiss.livejournal.com/) and [](http://la-george.livejournal.com/profile)[**Liz**](http://la-george.livejournal.com/). All translations can be found at the end of the story.

A Walk in the World

It's careless that Seamus at first doesn't take it seriously when Dean becomes ill, as his friend usually never complains about feeling not well. He should know that something is not right, but on this particular Friday, Seamus is in a hurry. It isn't out of the ordinary, as he is late for work most mornings. There's no time to worry about Dean who sits at the breakfast table, stirs his coffee morosely and says something about a headache. Seamus provides some good advice, though, involving a joke about drinking too much and the merits of hangover potion. He ruffles Dean's short hair and is out of the door before Dean can even answer.

Living with Dean has been easy from the start. Dean is in charge of cooking, Seamus is doing the laundry, even though he wouldn't admit it in public, and they share cleaning duties. Those are a quick affair and only done whenever they feel like drowning in dust is an imminent danger. It doesn't occur too often, though, none of them have any wish to be confused with their mothers.

Dean never asks where Seamus is going, when he's going to come home, or where he's been, more often than not because Dean is right there with him anyway. Dean doesn't bother him with stray socks, dirty towels or half empty beer bottles in the fridge and Seamus doesn't have to explain that sitting down while pissing is a severe attack on masculinity in general and Seamus's in particular. Dean understands.

Seamus finishes work late on the day when Dean's headache starts. He's been working for the goblins, deep in the bowels of Gringotts, since taking his N.E.W.T.s after an additional eighth year at Hogwarts. Not long before he finished school, McGonagall had asked him if he'd ever thought of working with wards and other types of protective magic. He hadn't, but she'd had a point, it was one of the few things Seamus was good at and was interested in. The rest of the story is short. He applied at Gringotts, they put him through a variety of tests and agreed to give him a job. There's nothing he could complain about. The goblins are predictable creatures, and the money is decent.

He opens the front door, but their small flat is dark and quiet. He assumes that Dean has gone for a pint after work, which is unusual, but not unheard of. Seamus would understand it; he'd need a lot of pints if he were working at the Ministry, in the Department of Magical Games and Sports under Ludo Bagman.

Seamus turns on the light and toes off his shoes. He's hungry and has been hoping that Dean has made something for dinner like he does most evenings. Contrary to popular belief, though, Seamus is indeed able to make himself a sandwich. He's on his way to the kitchen, walking through their small but cosy living room, when he notices Dean's still form lying on the battered couch. The couch was a present from Dean's older sister Emma, and when one ignores the ugly mud-green colour and some undefined stains on the right armrest, it's quite comfortable.

Dean looks peaceful, as he lies spread-eagle on his back, one arm and leg hanging down over the side of the couch. But he's wearing his pyjamas, which is alarming at this time of day. Just as alarming as the empty potion vial on the coffee table next to a cup full of what looks like cold tea.

Seamus crouches down beside the couch and touches Dean's shoulder.

"Dean?"

He doesn't move, just keeps on breathing, his chest moving slowly. Seamus grips his shoulder and shakes him. "Hey Dean, wake up, mate."

Dean huffs in his sleep, moves his head to the side. Seamus smells stale breath and frowns. Dean is a light sleeper who wakes up easily. Seamus shakes him some more. "Come on, slacker, time to get up."

He wakes up. But he does it slowly, and as he opens his eyes he blinks at Seamus, obviously not comprehending what's going on, dark shadows beneath his eyes.

"Dean, what's up?" Worry settles in Seamus's gut and forms a tight knot.

"'S all right," Dean mumbles and bats at Seamus's hand. "'M tired." He turns around on the couch and pulls a cushion over his head. "Jus' lemme sleep."

It's so unlike Dean that Seamus considers calling a healer. But he doesn't look hurt, and he said it was all right, didn't he? Seamus decides to keep a close eye on him. As long as he's just sleeping, it can't be too bad.

*

"How long has he been unconscious?" the healer asks. The look she gives Seamus over her horn-rimmed spectacles says, 'It's all your fault'.

"He hasn't moved for about fifteen hours and I couldn't wake him up this morning."

"Is this the first time this happened?"

It isn't. Since that first day, three weeks earlier, when Dean didn't go to work and refused to get up from the couch, his sleeping pattern has changed. He's gone to work, but every evening he went straight to bed, only eating because Seamus refused to let him sleep without having some food first. Dean didn't want to see a healer, said everything was fine and Seamus needn't worry. It's far from fine, though, and when Seamus couldn't wake his friend up this morning, he didn't hesitate and floo-called St. Mungo's. Apparently his condition isn't as _fine_ as Dean has thought. The healers brought him to St. Mungo's immediately.

Seamus tells the healer everything he knows and has no answer when she asks him why they didn't come earlier. She reminds him of Minerva McGonagall with her hair tied back in a bun, her voice filled with authority and the years of experience showing in her professional confidence. It calms him only slightly.

The next hours are a blur. No one knows what's wrong with Dean, and Seamus sends an owl to Dean's mother who informs the rest of the family. By mid afternoon he's surrounded by Dean's parents, his three sisters and one big brother. No one has a clue yet why Dean doesn't wake up. And if the healers suspect anything, they don't tell them.

Seamus goes home when one of the healers throws him out after he attempts to enter the room where they keep Dean. They haven't allowed anyone to visit and there's a constant coming and going of various people, most of them dressed in healer robes.

The flat, when Seamus comes home, is empty and cold - not surprising in January. He misses the laughter and easy banter that has always been there, accompanying the steady friendship between them. But it has already been gone since that first Friday, and Seamus again wants to yell at himself for not doing anything earlier. As much as his temper wants him to destroy some furniture or hit a wall, he knows it wouldn't help, and for once he resists - mainly because he's too tired. He can't sleep, though; there is too much guilt, worry and possibilities he tries to keep out of his mind. And so he spends the night restless in his bed, rolling from one side to the other.

When morning dawns, Seamus gets up, takes a shower and dresses. The coffee he makes is so strong and bitter that it flows down his throat like oil and he grabs something sugar-sticky to eat in the bakery on his way to the hospital. His boss wasn't happy when Seamus flooed him first thing in the morning to tell him he needs a few days off, but Seamus doesn't think he'd be of any help at work in his current state. Not that it matters, Dean needs him at the hospital, so he'll be there.

The healer has news. But the bitch doesn't want to discuss them with Seamus, says she'll only talk to a family member. Seamus tries to tell her that he _is_ a family member, but for some reason she isn't impressed. He doesn't know if it's because she's a stickler for some stupid rules or because his language might have got a bit out of hand. He doesn't have to wait very long, though. Dean's mum is there only minutes later and disappears with said healer.

Seamus paces in the hallway and glares at everyone who dares to pass by. Finally Mrs. Thomas is back, pale beneath her dark skin, her hands trembling. Seamus relaxes his right hand where he's clutching the paper-ball that once was the empty bag from the bakery.

"Is he all right? Is he awake? What did she say? What's wrong with him?" Seamus asks the questions as soon as Mrs. Thomas is close enough and she smiles a forced smile at him, her lips a thin line where she's pressing them together. He isn't sure if he really wants to know the answer.

"It's Wand Fever," she says. The name doesn't ring any bells, Seamus has never heard it before and he flails his hands, gesturing at her to go on. "I don't really understand it, Seamus. Some kind of magic is attacking his brain and his own magic has put him to sleep in order to fight it." She looks helpless as she tries to explain something from a world that is so different from the Muggle world she knows. Seamus sometimes forgets that Dean is Muggleborn and was raised without even knowing that he's a wizard. "They say they can't do anything but wait and help his body stay strong, while his magic is fighting the infection."

Seamus nods. A magical infection isn't uncommon. He had dragon pox as a child and there are dozens, maybe hundreds of infections that attack a wizard's or witch's magic instead of their physical body. Quite a few of them are fatal and for some there are no potions or spells so that one's own magic has to fight back.

"But he'll be all right?" It is half a question, half a statement and Seamus looks at Mrs. Thomas, both dreading and wanting the answer.

"They don't know," she whispers, tears spilling down her cheeks.

*

Seamus isn't sure how they became friends. Probably because they never did. They just _were_. They never went through that stage where they got to know each other, got used to each other and then went from acquaintances to friends. For Dean and Seamus, it happened all at once.

Seamus remembers meeting Dean on the Hogwarts Express. His mother had told him lots of stories and he was excited and couldn't wait to get to Hogwarts. He boarded the train and within minutes he was in a fight with a much older boy. How that happened, he isn't quite sure, but he suspects that it had something to do with his big mouth and his inability to keep it shut. It wasn't looking good for Seamus. The other boy was bigger, had friends and he was coming closer with balled fists. Seamus stood his ground - he wasn't a coward - until someone gripped his arm and pulled him away.

"Where were you, I was waiting for you," someone said. It was a tall, black boy Seamus had never seen before, but he knew an out when he saw one.

"Sorry, got interrupted." He shrugged at the small crowd, winked at his opponent, grabbed his trunk, and hurriedly followed the other boy.

"I'm Dean," the boy introduced himself and they both sat down on opposite benches.

"Seamus," he answered and added, "I would have beat him."

Dean giggled. "Of course. And all of his friends."

Seamus scowled at first, but the laughter was infectious and soon they were both laughing so hard that tears were rolling down their cheeks. Someone opened the door and asked if they'd seen a toad, which was even funnier. By the time they reached their destination, Seamus knew that Dean's brother was an idiot, that two of his sisters were pretty, that Dean liked to draw and that two months ago he still hadn't known that he was a wizard.

He spends many hours in that hospital room thinking of Hogwarts and sitting on the chair next to Dean's bed or walking from one end of the room to the other. The days at the hospital are long. But the days when Seamus has to go back to work after ten days and Dean still hasn't woken up are even longer. He's monitoring the security systems of the vaults with practiced routine, but he's constantly thinking about Dean. The picture of his best mate, still and pale in a hospital bed, haunts him, not only during the day but also in his dreams. He doesn't know what he would do if something happened to Dean. It's not as if Seamus isn't capable of getting along alone, but Dean has been there since he was eleven. They've shared everything from chocolate frogs to first experiences with girls to the life after Hogwarts. Seamus can't imagine living a life without someone who knows him so well.

After work, Seamus usually goes directly to the hospital. On most evenings all the other visitors are already gone and he's sitting next to Dean who never moves. Seamus always talks. The silence is too much, too awkward, and he's in general not very good at being silent.

"You, my friend, are really clever," Seamus tells him one night. "Parvati was here earlier and the woman cried her eyes out. I knew that you've had a thing for her since forever, but going to such lengths to win her over? That's dedication, man." Seamus is looking out of the window. The night outside is dark and he can't see any stars in the cloudy sky.

"I don't mean to criticise you, mate, it's been effective so far. Still, don't you think it's enough now? I get that a bit of drama adds to the credibility, but honestly, if you don't wake up soon it will get old pretty fast. Then I'll be the only one coming round to see your sorry carcass." Seamus sighs at the forced cheeriness in his voice. It's the best he can do. He turns around and walks back to the bed. The chair is hard and he knows that he'll only be able to sit on it for a few minutes. It doesn't keep him from sitting down.

"You should grab your chance while it's still there. Pity is a good way to start, but if she thinks you won't wake up anymore, or that your muscles have vanished because you're doing nothing but sleeping the whole time, she'll move on. You wouldn't want to lose her to someone like, let's say, Terry Boot, would you? I've seen him making eyes at her at the Leaky, and I reckon he's a pretty boy. All things considered."

"You're so full of shit, 's not even funny," comes a scratchy, tired voice.

Seamus straightens up immediately. The urge to throw himself on the bed or pull back the covers, do something drastic is strong, but Seamus resists and takes Dean's hand instead, not caring about male code. He hopes his grip isn't too tight. Dean doesn't move, but his eyes are open and there's a small smile on his face.

"Shut up, layabout," Seamus says when he trusts his voice far enough to speak. "I'm the only entertainment you'll get, so stop complaining."

Dean shifts under his blanket, but he can't seem to do anything more. "I told you I don't want no healers."

Seamus looks at him incredulous, but the look Dean is giving him back says that he's teasing. "Too bad that you're not me mam, she's the only one I listen to."

"No you don't," Dean says and coughs. It appears to hurt. Seamus doesn't know what to do and helps him lift his head a bit, which seems to help him breathe.

"How long have I been here?"

Seamus tells him what happened and that he's been at the hospital for weeks now. He leaves out the parts where they didn't know if he'd ever wake up, that his mother is at the end of her strength and that he's seen all of Dean's sisters cry at least once.

A nurse comes in just as Dean declares that he's going to get up and go to the loo now. She threatens to hex him to the bed, but Seamus assures her that Dean won't go anywhere and that it was just a joke. They exchange a look when she's gone and Seamus shrugs. He stopped believing in medical training weeks ago.

It doesn't take long until the room is filled with people who point their wands at Dean, mutter spells and talk far too loudly. They say Dean needs rest, but they won't let him. Seamus hates to see him so weak and fragile and being unable to tell them to fuck off. The light they lit above Dean's bed is obviously hurting his eyes, but either they don't notice or they don't care.

After being thrown out of the room once again, shouting his impressive collection of Irish curses at them and owling Dean's mother, he summons a chair and sits down in front of the door to Dean's room. He knows this is going to be a long night.

*

"When I'm out of here, I'll go travelling," Dean says one day. It's dark outside and Seamus has his mouth full of rice and duck. On his way to the hospital he stopped at a Muggle Chinese takeaway and smuggled two full bags into Dean's room. The food at St. Mungo's is atrocious and someone has to keep Dean from losing even more weight, so Seamus brings him something for dinner nearly every night. He suspects that the nurse knows, but so far she's never said anything. It's not enough to gain Seamus's respect back, but he's willing to stop loathing her.

"Where would ye go to?"

Dean shrugs. "Wrong question, mate." He's looking into the box that contains chicken with sate sauce.

"What's the right question, then?"

"The right question is what I want to see."

Seamus gestures with his chopsticks. "What's that?"

"Art."

Seamus doesn't understand. "Go to one of the thousand galleries in London, or the Louvre in Paris. Or what about the Prado in Madrid? You never stopped talking about them when we were in school."

Dean shifts in his bed and tugs at the pillow that supports his back. He's still weak, but he's getting stronger every day. "Not talking about that. I want to see something different. I've been to museums and I'll definitely stop at the Louvre, but I'm talking about the stuff you can't put into a frame. I want to see the pyramids, Angkor Vat, Taj Mahal, Rapa Nui, Machu Picchu, that kind of art. I want to play conga, learn how to make a didgeridoo and dance naked in the desert."

Seamus chokes on his rice. The thought of Dean Thomas dancing naked in the desert is ... different. "I want to see that," he wheezes after coughing violently. "But yeah, sounds good."

"You don't think I'm mental? Giving up my job and everything and going on a journey."

"Hang on." Seamus thinks he's misunderstood. "Bagman would give you some time off. Why would you give up your job for a few weeks of vacation?"

Dean shakes his head. The small but determined smile tells Seamus that the decision has already been made. "I've been thinking about a couple of years, actually."

Seamus suddenly finds it hard to breathe.

He's hit with a feeling of déjà vu and remembers an owl that arrived at his bedroom window a few years earlier during the last week of August. It was a common barn owl he'd never seen before. The note he found was barely legible.

_I'm off. Won't see you next week. If you read the Prophet you know why. ~~I have no idea where to go and I don't know when or if I'll see you again.~~ Don't do anything stupid._

Seamus didn't need a signature to know who had sent the owl.

It was worse, then, Seamus thinks. Now he knows that there are no Death Eaters looking for Dean. No one wants to send him to Azkaban or worse. Dean will come back eventually, won't he?

*

Four weeks later, Dean is gone.

Living without him is like a chocolate frog without chocolate, Seamus thinks sometimes. He doesn't like living alone. Never before in his life has he had to get up alone, eat alone, go to bed alone. He catches himself moping too often in the evenings, only to catch himself going to the pub too often a few weeks later. He could have afforded to live alone in the flat he shared with Dean, but when he meets Anthony Goldstein one night and the former Ravenclaw tells him that he has to leave his flat because the landlord needs it for his son, Seamus offers Dean's old room. A bit of company sounds tempting after being alone for months. And to be honest, he's creeping himself out when he sometimes goes into Dean's old room, lies on the bed, closes his eyes and imagines that his best friend is still there.

It turns out that living with Anthony is a lot more stressful than living with Dean. He does, no doubt, cook better than Seamus, but nowhere as good as Dean, and he's tidy. Very tidy. Seamus finds the way he crinkles his well-educated nose at socks, towels and beer funny at first, but it quickly becomes infuriating. Anthony is thrown out of the flat after less than a month - so are Marcus, Phillip, and Thomas. Thomas isn't too bad, but it's just too hard to say and hear his name regularly when it isn't the Thomas Seamus wants to have in the flat. It occurs to Seamus that this might not be normal, but he ignores the thought.

 

 

A day after Seamus receives the postcard, he finishes work early. He wants to go home in time so that he can shower, dress and get himself ready for a night about town. He knows where the Patil sisters go on their night out - it isn't as if the wizarding world is big enough not to know - and he owes one of them a snog. He might even get a second one if he's lucky, a kick in the groin if he's not.

He laughs at the thought that one of his first snogs was with Dean.

It was in fifth year when toady Umbridge was Headmistress and they had to be in the common room early every night. They played some kind of game - Lavender, Parvati, Dean and some others - that had something to do with a bottle and kissing random people. Seamus didn't understand the reasoning behind it, but he was a good sport and snogged whomever he was told to snog.

It didn't take too long until Lavender got that glint in her eye.

"Dean, I want you to kiss Seamus," she said and Seamus wondered why the bloody hell she'd be wanting something like that.

He looked at Dean with raised eyebrows and Dean scowled back at him. Seamus thought it was unfair, as this hadn't been _his_ idea.

"No way," Dean said.

Seamus waited for the feeling of relief, but it didn't come. Instead he felt mildly insulted and asked, "Why not?"

Dean looked at him as if he'd grown a second head and Parvati cackled. "Yes, Dean," she said. "Why ever not? Are you scared?"

Seamus groaned, as he realised that Fred and George were looking at them with sparkling eyes and he knew that now they _had_ to. He cursed himself but he was also curious. And there was nothing strange about that. It was a game, right? There were rules. It's not like he had a choice.

Dean shook his head but Fred or George slapped the back of it and called him chicken. Dean didn't like being called chicken. He wasn't the biggest talker in Gryffindor, but never let other people give him shit. He came over - again with that accusing look - and sat down in front of Seamus who at first didn't know where to look at. Dean was more pragmatic about it and obviously had decided to just do it, the faster the better.

When their lips met and someone catcalled, Seamus did his best to give at least a good show. The snog itself was kind of sloppy and wet with teeth grazing lips and noses bumping. Seamus thought he could still taste broccoli from dinner on Dean's tongue, that was currently in his mouth doing something utterly strange. Godric, how much he hated broccoli. Seamus was rather glad when it was over.

He snaps out of the little Hogwarts moment and looks at himself in the mirror, sees the hair his mother always calls sandy, but he thinks is more straw-coloured. There are freckles scattered across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. He frowns and then rubs his forehead, does something to his hair that neither makes it better nor worse, not even much different, and brushes his teeth. He's leaving the bathroom with a stylishly untucked shirt, a bit of stubble in the face and denims that are tight in all the right places.

"Look who's trying to pull tonight," Parvati says to her sister when he approaches them in the small bar. "Long time no see, Finnigan."

Parvati isn't up for a snog, he finds out, but Lavender is. She looks hot in the dress that clings to her chest like a second skin and is tight around her perfect arse. Seamus knows that she wants to distract from the scars on her face, but he thinks she's being silly. She's beautiful from head to toe and the imperfection that mars her cheek and neck just accentuate the rest of her. He's never understood girls, so he isn't surprised that he doesn't understand her either.

He does his best, though, to show her exactly how hot she is when they are back at the flat and the dress falls off her shoulders and pools around her feet. He's hard for her and she makes him forget with her soft hands and softer curves, though he isn't sure why he needs to.

On the next morning he wakes up next to her. He nuzzles the skin of her back and kisses her shoulders until she wakes up. Her body fits against his. When he squeezes her breast gently, she melts under his touch. He loves the way she moves and how she murmurs and sighs and how she moans as he slides into her from behind. She's not completely awake yet, and Seamus's brain is sleep-addled. He loses himself in her. When he comes it's quietly and it feels so very comfortable.

 

 

It becomes a routine. Whenever the flat is too quiet and he starts throwing things at the walls because he just can't stand it anymore, Seamus either goes to the bar or floos Lavender directly. They don't talk much, they drink, dance and shag. It's a pragmatic approach to something that is almost a relationship. Seamus isn't in love, even though he cares about her, and he is almost convinced that Lavender isn't in love either. It suits him just fine.

"Do you miss him?" she asks one day when they are lying in bed, still panting and sweaty from a fabulous shag.

Seamus doesn't answer immediately but reaches over to the nightstand and grabs a fag. It's a disgusting habit he picked up some weeks earlier and is going to get rid of any day now. He lights it with the tip of his wand and takes a deep drag, sucks the smoke in hungrily.

"'Course I do," he says. "Do you?"

She nods. Seamus knows there's something on her mind and waits for her to go on. "Parvati does, too."

Seamus hasn't expected that. "She does?" he asks for lack of anything else to say.

Lavender turns her head and snuggles closer. She drapes one arm across his chest and tangles their legs. He feels crowded, but knows better than to ask for some space. "Do you have any idea why it never worked out between them?"

Seamus is at a loss. How is he supposed to know that, relationships have never worked out for him either. "Dunno. They were never really together, were they?"

Lavender kisses his nipple and he squirms. "She's been trying for years to get her hands on him."

"Parvati?" Seamus is shocked and amused at the same time.

"Don't tell me you never noticed."

"I... uh..." He never noticed anything, just that Dean always had that pathetic little crush but never did anything about it.

"She even told him once, when she was drunk, but he just took her home and put her to bed. What kind of guy does that?"

Seamus smiles fondly. "Dean. It's exactly the thing Dean would do."

 

After Hogwarts, Seamus has always spent Christmas with Dean at his family's house. It's not that he doesn't want to see his own mother, but there's a long standing tradition of her and her friends getting together and drinking down an unhealthy amount of something that consists of one third eggnog and two thirds Firewhisky. He doesn't mind getting away from that, and after the first year, his mother accepted it, albeit grudgingly.

He doesn't know where to go this year. Lavender is with her family and spending Christmas at their house is out of the question. Spending Christmas at a girlfriends' house is practically a proposition and Seamus doesn't want to commit to anything like that. He could go to the Thomas's house, but without Dean it would be strange and awkward. Going to a pub screams pathetic and while staying at home alone isn't much better, there are at least no witnesses.

Seamus has enough beer, sandwiches, crisps and memories of happy Christmases to get through the evening.

He's been living alone in the flat for almost a year now. The few weeks with various flatmates don't count. The beer in his system provides the pleasant buzz he needs to be able to think back to that time in his seventh year when he was also alone, when Dean was off somewhere in the woods. He didn't know where Dean was or if he'd ever see him again, he didn't know what life outside of Hogwarts was like, but the stories of Snatchers, Death Eaters and Ministry Morons were horrifying.

Since that first owl, there had been no message from Dean and around March, Seamus contemplated leaving Hogwarts and looking for him. He wouldn't have minded leaving the castle at all. Things were a nightmare within the thick stonewalls of Hogwarts. At the end of fourth year, Seamus's mother hadn't believed that Cedric Diggory had died in a maze during a school contest at the hands of Voldemort. But compared to what was happening at Hogwarts under Snape, the story of the Triwizard Tournament seemed like an everyday tale.

They were almost used to seeing the Cruciatus curse cast or seeing teachers use other kinds of torture. Seamus's body was scarred as well as his soul. And yet, he always pushed. The three empty beds in their dorm, especially the one closest to his own, were a constant reminder that there were others who probably went through worse. Even though Seamus sometimes couldn't imagine what 'worse' could be.

At the end things were bad. The last time they got him, he thought he wouldn't make it out of the dungeons alive. But in an insane act of stupidity and bravery, his friends rescued him and they moved into the Room of Requirement. The only reason they didn't leave the school was because they knew that one day Harry would come back. They needed to be ready for that. And they were.

In a sense, the Carrows had done them a favour. When the battle started, all of them had already endured torture, humiliation, had seen Unforgivable curses performed on first years. They knew what they were fighting for.

He'd never told Dean, but the moment he saw his best friend entering the Room of Requirement was probably the best moment of Seamus's life. One minute he was listening to Harry and Neville talking, and the next he was sprinting through the room at top speed and throwing himself at his friend.

It was a bit embarrassing, but there was no way he could help himself. He hugged him tight, clung to him, it was all he could do not to wrap his legs around him as well. He felt Dean laughing, his breath was tickling his cheek and he held on a bit longer to delay the moment when Dean would see how beat up he was. In the end he had to force himself to let go.

"Damn, it's good to see you, man," he said and he grinned in a way that hurt his sore face.

"You look like shit, I gotta say."

"That's what I got for trying to grope Lavender without her permission," Seamus joked.

Dean nodded slowly and Seamus saw his eyes scanning his face and body. "You'll never learn to keep your mouth shut."

Seamus snorted. "How come you think it's because of something I said?"

"Empirical knowledge," Dean deadpanned. "Are you all right?" The question was sincere and full of concern.

"Yeah. Yeah, I am." 'Now,' he added silently.

Seamus shakes off the memory, empties his bottle and stares into the fire. When he catches himself wondering if the feeling he'll have when he'll see Dean again will be anything like the feeling back then, he knows that he's had enough to drink. He still opens another beer.

Lavender shows up around midnight. She brings a present and a bottle of champagne. Seamus is too far gone to do anything but grin dopily at her. He supposes that she looks lovely, but he can't focus properly, his vision is too blurry. He tells her so, but she doesn't seem to get that it's meant as a compliment.

She yells something Seamus has trouble understanding. He tries to explain that it's Christmas and no time for fighting and if she can't be a good girl she should go home. The point comes across and she leaves. Unfortunately she takes his present with her. Seamus thinks that's a bit rude, but as there are a couple of beers left, he decides not to be bothered.

He drinks those as well and he finally forgets that Dean didn't even write a Christmas card.

*

Work is a bitch lately. Seamus has trouble concentrating on what he's doing and the wards have already gone off twice in his section without any reason at all. The goblins aren't happy with his shoddy work and transfer him to another section of the bank's vaults - less security, more traffic - with a partner he barely knows but already dislikes.

When he comes home one Friday night, he finds Lavender on his couch; the couch that Dean's sister gave her brother and that's still standing in the living room with the stain and colour and comfy cushions.

"What are you doing here?" he asks. It sounds just as impatient as he feels.

"Where were you? Why are you coming so late?" she asks back. "We wanted to go out." She's dressed up and pretty, her tiny handbag next to her. It's something he's noticed about Lavender. The smaller her handbag is, the better he's expected to dress. Tonight, the thought of dress pants and a shirt makes him itch in several places. He wants to kick off his shoes, put his feet on the table and drink a beer.

"We'll go tomorrow, or next week. I'm tired." If looks could kill, he'd be a pile of ashes. "Come on Lav, I'm tired."

"You promised." There's a slight whine in her voice and it makes the back of his neck crawl.

"Yeah, I know." It's a lie, he can remember no promise, but he knows better than to argue with her. The more he disagrees, the longer it will take to open that bottle of beer. "I'll make it up to you. Why don't you just go alone? I won't be any fun anyway."

"You're not serious." But he is. And he knows that she can see it in his face. "We've talked about this for weeks. We're meeting Parvati and Terry, and Padma with her new boyfriend."

It's not fair and Seamus knows it, but the prospect of meeting the Patils, their significant others and God knows whom else in a fancy restaurant, drinking wine instead of ale and eating something that comes in tiny helpings makes Seamus's stomach churn. He wants booze and greasy food and sitting on Dean's couch in boxers.

"I'm not up for going out today." He goes to the kitchen and gets himself a beer, wondering if there's enough bread left for a decent sandwich. "We can go tomorrow, or next week."

"Merlin, I'm sick of this," she says and picks up the handbag. It doesn't even have a sling, she'll have to carry it the whole evening. He wonders if that doesn't annoy her.

She takes something from the coffee table. "I'm going. Here, take this instead. Arrived today. Put it on your nightstand along with the others. That'll cheer you up better than I could ever do."

She throws something at him, it lands at his feet. He picks it up and turns it in his hands. It's a card from Dean. "Tahiti," Seamus mutters, "nice one, mate."

He's smiling and wants to apologise. But when he looks up, Lavender is already gone. He didn't hear her leave.

 

Seamus is sitting on the floor, next to a bag full of clothes. He has a pair of denims in one hand, his favourite t-shirt in the other. It's the one Dean gave him for his birthday five years ago. It's an ugly green thing that says 'I'm not a Leprechaun, I'm just Irish.' When the door opens and Lavender enters the room, he looks up at her.

"You're going to look for him, aren't you." She doesn't sound surprised, just resigned. He understands it, he wouldn't put up a fight either if he was her. He's been a moody and miserable git, lately. He's disgusted with himself and wonders what went wrong.

He nods. "I have to."

She sits down beside him on the floor. She doesn't talk at first, just puts her head on his shoulder, a gesture that is almost too intimate and far too kind, considering that he is about to leave her to look for his best mate. "You won't come back," she says without raising her voice at the end of the sentence; it isn't a question.

"Not like that, no."

There is silence for a long time. Eventually Seamus lets go of the denims and takes her hand. "I haven't planned this. I don't know what to say. I'm sorry, Lav-"

But he can't finish the sentence. Lavender interrupts him. "Don't say that." She takes her head off his shoulder and now there is a hint of anger in her voice. "We never had a chance. I knew that from the start. I wanted it to work, but I gave up long ago. I know that I love you and that you love me, too, in a way." Her eyes are shining and Seamus wishes he could look away. "Don't you ever say you're sorry, though, because you're not and I won't let you lie to me."

Seamus shrugs helplessly and lets go of his shirt to wipe away a tear that runs down her cheek. She is right. He isn't sorry about his decision. He wouldn't go if he were. "I wish I could have been better," he says and he means it.

"Me, too, Seamus." She puts her hand on the back of his neck and tilts her head. Their lips meet in a soft, sweet kiss. It is chaste and Seamus feels the wetness from her tears on his cheeks. They've kissed more times than he can count, but this is the last one. It holds all the missed chances, the lost possibilities and the happy future they won't have. He's sad despite everything. He wishes he could be what she needs and that she could be what he needs. They part and Lavender lets go of his neck. She squeezes his hand and lets go of it as well. The distance between them grows and has nothing to do with physical space.

She stands and Seamus watches her turn around. Her silhouette is graceful and as always he is transfixed by her swaying hips and her slender legs. He _does_ love her in a way. She just isn't... 'Dean' is the word that comes to his mind and Seamus shakes his head because he doesn't know what it means. Will he never be able to have a happy relationship because his best mate is more important? Or will it change when he sees him again? What a fucked up situation is that?

He sits on the floor with his half-packed bag for a long time, thinking just how much they all have changed and how much he sometimes wants to be back in fifth year when they all were innocent kids. But those years can't be wished away. And if he's honest with himself, he doesn't truly want it.

The postcard next to the bag reminds him of what he was doing and he picks up the t-shirt and the pair of jeans again.

 

 

Seamus arrives in Mexico City on a Sunday morning. It's hot, but not as hot as he's expected. The sun is shining from a blue sky as he leaves the portkey station in t-shirt and denims, instantly falling for the city. The wizarding district - the Mexicans simply call it El Distrito - is even busier than Diagon Alley. He doesn't wear any sunglasses and squints as the sun is too bright. The hustle and bustle excites him and he's drawn to the various shops. There are displays with spices, fabrics and artfully crafted baskets. He can see an owl shop, and hear it; the racket the animals are making is impressive. There is a bookshop and a café, and he thinks that he can understand that Dean wants to stay here for a while. It all seems a bit friendlier, a bit brighter, and a bit more awake than at home. But maybe it's just that he's never been so far away from home before, and that he's stunned and awed by what he sees.

He has no idea where to start looking for the art gallery, only knows it's Muggle and that the name of the owner is Alfonso. It's not much in a city with more than eight million people. He sent an owl after he arrived, but the bird came back with the letter still tied to its foot. He wonders if Dean doesn't want to be found or if Mexican birds are just useless.

It comes in handy that he's a halfblood and grew up in an all Muggle town. He doesn't have any difficulties navigating the city after he acquires a map. He blends in disguised as a tourist - or not, as he essentially _is_ a tourist - and juggling the money isn't hard either. He tries going to the tourist information first.

"Buenos días," he starts awkwardly. João, a colleague from work, taught him a few phrases in Spanish before Seamus left. "Busco una galería de arte." He doesn't know what he'll do when she answers him, because chances that he won't understand are high.

She smiles at him serenely. "You're looking for an art gallery? You are American, no?"

"No," he says and tries not to be insulted. "I'm Irish."

"Aaah," she says as if it explains everything. "What are you looking for? There is the Museo Nacional de Arte, with a classical collection of Mexican Art; or the Museo de Arte Moderno, with an equally exceptional but more modern collection. We also have the Museo de Arte Contemporáneo Internacional Rufino Tamayo, which is famous for its...," she seems to be searching for a word, "obras de Miró, Picasso, Dalí and Bacon."

Seamus shakes his head. "No, I'm not looking for a museum. I'm looking for a friend of mine."

She looks at him questioningly.

"He works in an art gallery," Seamus explains. "Not a museum, they're selling art." It occurs to him that that is just an assumption. "Or so I think. The owner's name is Alfonso and it opened not long ago."

"Oh-kay," she says, drawing out the syllables. "You are looking for a business." She looks confused and turns around to talk to another woman. Seamus doesn't understand what they're saying; they talk rapidly back and forth.

"I can give you a list of the art galleries. It is up to date, but if the gallery is very new, it might not be on there. Some of the owners are listed, others are not. Do you have a map?"

Seamus nods and after pushing buttons on what he knows is a computer but has no idea how it works, she gives him a sheet of paper with far too many names on it. "Muchas gracias," he says weakly. If he has to go to every gallery listed, he'll be busy for weeks.

*

Seamus can't count how often he has cursed Dean in the last few days.

It's the third gallery on this day and the temperature has risen since he arrived. The t-shirt he wears clings to his back and his feet feel like they are melting in his trainers. He curses and glares at the door he's just about to open. He's in front of a simple, unpretentious building and the sign says 'Galería.' "Bloody helpful," Seamus mutters and enters. It's cool inside, which pacifies him slightly. It smells like fresh paint and Seamus looks around. Everything is new and some of the paintings are still standing on the floor. It's clean, almost too clean; clinical is the term that fits.

There is an over-sized counter; the reception, Seamus assumes, but no one is there. The high table looks futuristic, is arched in an elegant bow and rests on a bowl-shaped... whatever. It's art, Seamus reminds himself. He wonders where they put their stuff, he can't see a single drawer, shelf or cupboard.

He snaps out of his musings when someone comes running around a corner but stops in his tracks as he spots Seamus.

"Hola," the man says and smiles brightly. "Bienvenido. Soy Alfonso, le puedo ayudar en algo?"

After 'Bienvenido,' the only thing Seamus understands is 'Alfonso'. He's tempted to punch the air.

"Lo siento," he apologises. "I don't speak Spanish."

"Aaah," says Alfonso as if it explains everything. "How can I help you? Forgive me, but you don't look as if you'd like to buy something. Are you American?"

Seamus figures it wouldn't be the most reasonable approach to punch the man in the face. He smiles at him instead, or at least shows his teeth in a gesture he hopes isn't aggressive. "Póg mo thóin," he says with his most charming grin. "I'm Irish."

"How interesting," Alfonso says. "How can I help you?" For some reason Seamus doesn't like the man at all. He's too tall, his smile is too genuine, his voice too friendly and he's too handsome.

"I'm looking for me friend. I know that he's working in an art gallery somewhere in the area. You wouldn't know anything about him, would you? His name's Dean, Dean Thomas, he's from London."

Seamus knows that he's found the right place when Alfonso's smile changes and he looks curious. He nods. "Dean is here. He's upstairs. Through that door over there." He points at a door that is as white as the walls.

"Thanks, Alfonso," Seamus says.

He's already halfway through the door when he hears a mocking "De nada." There are stairs behind the door and Seamus follows them up to the next floor. As far as he can see, there's only one big single room upstairs, half finished, with walls that are still bare and only half of them painted. It's empty except for a few chairs and a table.

Seamus's mind wants to pretend that he doesn't recognise the man who's standing with his back to Seamus at the far end of the room. But he'd recognise his best friend everywhere - the way he tilts his head to the left, his longs limbs, the way he stands perfectly still, always centred in the middle. It doesn't matter how different he looks. And Holy Fucking Mother of God, he _does_ look different.

The card from Tahiti wasn't as mysterious as Dean probably thought it was. '_Gotta show you something_', in combination with the picture on the postcard was a clear message. Seamus isn't an Auror, but he isn't dumb either. He's been imagining a small tattoo on Dean's shoulder blade or on his ankle, something tacky like a Gryffindor lion.

He should have known better.

Black ink is covering Dean's back from shoulder to the waistband of his jeans and Seamus wonders just how far it goes down. It's a pattern made of symbols arranged in one big phoenix, spreading its wings, head held high. It spans Dean's back gracefully, wings on his shoulder blades and the end of the tail-feathers out of sight. It's a Muggle tattoo, it doesn't move, and yet it looks like the bird is about to take off. When he comes closer, he can see that the symbols themselves consist of even smaller symbols. Dean was right, it's a work of art and Seamus can't stop staring at it. He'd bet a month's worth of Guinness that Dean drew it himself.

The muscles in Dean's back are working as he paints the wall with sure strokes, a few drops of paint on his shoulders and arms in stark contrast to his dark skin. Seamus shakes his head at his own thoughts, not sure where they come from. Something Luna explained to him years ago comes into his mind and he wonders if there are Wrackspurts in Mexico. Invisible things that float in through a victim's ears and make their brain go fuzzy would be an excellent explanation.

"So that's what you're doing on your big trip around the world?"

Dean stops, puts the brush down, straightens up and turns around very, very slowly.

Seamus can't help but grin at the gobsmacked expression on his face and takes advantage, not giving him any time to recover. "What's wrong with a Celtic knot?" he asks.

Dean is staring at him. "A Celtic knot?"

"Your back. Instead of tattooing some random creature on there, you could have gone for a solid Celtic knot."

A small smile spreads on Dean's face. "You came here to discuss Celtic knots, did you?"

"Actually, I came to drag your sorry arse back home. Parvati says she misses you."

"Does she?" Dean tilts his head and looks Seamus up and down. "Why isn't she here, then?"

Seamus grins at him. "Terry does a good job of comforting her. Thought I should tell you before someone else does. Best mate's duty and all that."

"I'm shattered. Do I get a comforting hug now?"

"Oh well, can't resist if ye ask that nicely." Seamus closes the distance between them and hugs him hard, not caring that there is paint all over him.

"Good to see you, mate," he says.

"You, too." Dean lets go and steps back. "There's loads of work around here, no wands allowed."

Seamus groans. "I knew I should have thought about this before taking a three-weeks holiday," he mutters, but he's grinning and already taking off his backpack.

*

Dean is living in a small flat that belongs to Alfonso's brother Juan who's currently in Chile with his girlfriend. The flat is Dean's until the brother comes back and Seamus trades his tiny hotel room for the tiny guestroom. In the afternoons they are off, walking through the city, looking at famous places, buildings and other stuff that Dean finds exciting. The evenings they mostly spend in pubs or in bars. There seem to be more bars than people in Mexico City, and Seamus loves that aspect of the city more than the rest.

But what really gets to him are the mornings. He's been helping Dean around the gallery in the mornings, so that Dean can take the afternoons off. It's not hard work per se, but it involves lifting, painting - walls, not canvas - and moving furniture on the second floor of the building. It's the floor that isn't yet open for customers.

They are alone, working together in comfortable silence - shirtless because it's hot without any working air conditioning. While Seamus isn't shy in general, not at all, he's starting to become self conscious around Dean. He doesn't know if it's from backpacking, from working different jobs, from the way Dean carries his body more upright, but Dean looks different. And Seamus can't take his eyes off him, no matter how hard he tries.

There's a faint sheen of sweat on Dean's upper body most of the time, making his chest and shoulders shine. There's coarse hair down the centerline of his torso, thickening around his navel and disappearing into his trousers. Seamus isn't sure why he's noticing those things.

The first time he feels himself harden when he looks at the ink on Dean's back, he's freaked out and locks himself up in the loo, deciding that it isn't the time and place to be mature about it. He beats the tile hard and the pain goes a long way to make the problem disappear. At least the one visible from the outside. He doesn't know what is happening here, or rather he does, but it's easier to deny, or ignore it. He stays in the loo until Dean knocks on the door.

"Hey, are you in there?" he asks. "You didn't fall in, did you?"

"Shut up, a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do." Seamus knows that his voice sounds off, but he does his best to get a grip.

"Yeah, right. Don't give me any details, just come out of there and help me hang this thing up."

The water in the sink is cool. Seamus washes his face and leaves the small room when Dean knocks again. "All right, I'm here. What do you want me to do?"

Dean points at a painting, a small one, but the frame looks heavy. "That has to go on the wall. Can you hold it up while I fix it?"

It sounds easy enough. Seamus lifts up the frame and holds it against the wall while Dean is fiddling with hooks and nails. The frame doesn't cooperate, though. It's getting heavier with every minute, and Seamus curses when the muscles in his arms start to tremble. "Don't fall asleep, I'm not sure how long I can hold it."

Dean grunts and leans over Seamus from the side. "Can't reach the one in the middle, hang on."

"Hurry up, I don't think Al will be happy if this drops to the ground." Not that the picture is all that pretty. It consists of a few splotches of paint in several colours. Lavender would say that they don't even match. The thought comes as a surprise. He hasn't thought of Lavender since he arrived.

When Dean steps behind him, presses him against the wall, and reaches over his head, Seamus is startled. He can feel Dean from head to foot now, but he's still holding the frame and can't do anything but bite his lip and try not to groan - much.

"Sorry, mate, just a second," Dean apologises, completely missing the problem.

"You've got to be kidding me," Seamus mutters resigned in the general direction of the universe. Dean wiggles and moves behind him and Seamus can feel his chest, hot and slick with sweat.

Seamus whimpers quietly and closes his eyes. It doesn't take much to imagine that Dean is rocking against him and he feels himself getting hard again. This is all going pear-shaped, and he doesn't know how to stop it.

"Are you okay?" Dean asks and Seamus has a hard time not to go into hysterics.

"I'm fine," he assures, "absolutely spiffing. Are you done yet?"

"I think I'm done. You can let go." Dean steps back and Seamus catches himself panting. His gaze darts up Dean's torso and down again.

He doesn't look at Dean when he pushes him away and leaves the room as quickly as he can without running. He should find a church; an exorcism or three can't do any harm.

*

The scene is something that should have been written in one of Lavender's mushy romance novels, but it should never ever take place on the other side of the door that is only half closed. It's late afternoon and Seamus just returned to the gallery from a walk around the city. He went in through the backdoor and passed the little kitchen on his way to the studio where Dean was supposed to be working. There were voices from inside and Seamus stopped for a moment to hear if it's Dean. He doesn't know why he didn't just go inside. He should have, but now it's too late.

"He's the one you're running away from?" Alfonso asks.

"I'm not running," says Dean. It sounds like he's lost in thoughts and Seamus knows the look that comes with that kind of voice. "What makes you think I do?"

There is a pause before Alfonso continues. "You're different since he's here."

Seamus wants to know how Dean is different, but Dean doesn't ask. There is some rustling and there are footsteps inside the room. It's Seamus's cue to leave, but he's too curious to just go.

"Tea?" And now Seamus has to stay, because Dean always makes tea before he's having a serious conversation. Seamus has teased him numerous times about it, telling him that he doesn't have to live by the English clichés, as his roots are a few thousand miles away. There's a smile on Seamus's face as he thinks of Dean's leaf obsession, because honestly, who drinks tea in the middle of the day?

"Gracias," he hears when they settle down again. "Dime, qué pasa?"

"I'm not really sure," Dean says and Seamus is relieved. He feared that Dean was going to answer in Spanish.

"Mentiroso."

"You're calling me a liar?" There's not a hint of anger in Dean's voice, instead he sounds amused. "You're right. Same old story, I reckon. We've been mates for more than a decade. Since we were eleven and went to Hog... boarding school together. Shared a dorm, classes, homework, free time. Visited each other during the holidays. We went through some bad times. Really bad times. For a time I thought I'd never see him again. After school we moved in together, been living there for years. I was sick last year. And after that, I just needed to get out."

"Te entiendo perfectamente." That's something Seamus can translate. Alfonso says that he understands Dean which is funny, because Seamus doesn't understand, not really. He wonders if all their conversations are like this, in two languages. It would explain why Dean speaks Spanish as well as he does.

"I don't think you understand."

"Believe me, I do." There's bitterness in Alfonso's voice and a story lingering behind the words. "It _is_ an old story. Let me guess. You were best friends from the start. You grew up together. Somewhere along the line you noticed that things have changed. You look at him differently. You notice things. He's got a tight arse, hasn't he? He's not stupid either and the freckles are cute. And you probably wonder more often than not if he uses that big mouth of his for other things than talking."

Seamus feels light-headed. Where is oxygen when you need it?

"Don't you have a way with words," Dean mutters just loud enough to be heard on this side of the door. Seamus waits for denial, but it doesn't come.

"He's not the only one with a big mouth, you see," Alfonso says slyly. Seamus's head snaps up. The ugly fucker wouldn't use him as a come on, would he? "There are other options."

"Yeah, I know." He can _hear_ Dean smiling and doesn't like it at all. "It's not really about options, though."

*

Dean has planned a trip to Tulúm for both of them over the weekend. They grab a portkey on Friday morning that dumps them in the middle of what Seamus is sure must be heaven with a postcard-worthy sun shining from a blue sky down on an azure sea. There's a white sandy beach and Seamus moans at the sight of it.

Dean grins. "That's almost like Tahiti, just with more ruins."

"Ruins?" Seamus asks. "I didn't come here for ruins, mate, I want to drink beer in the sun, piss in the sand and get turned down by at least two local birds."

"Quit whinging," Dean says without any sympathy, "the less you dawdle now, the earlier we are at the beach."

They don't have to look long for the Maya ruins. Dean drags Seamus through all the temples, they look at stonewalls and Dean sketches a few of the buildings.

Dean tells him about the town, which during the thirteenth century had been one of the biggest on Yukatan and an important port in the area. Dean tells him stories with war and priestesses and queens. Seamus is content to listen to the low rumble of his friend, knowing that he'll have forgotten the details in less than an hour. He can feel the magic behind the stones, though, and isn't surprised when Dean tells him that wizards and witches had been living here for centuries.

They go to the beach later and transfigure some stones into big, fluffy towels on which they have sandwiches and beer that's still cool from a charm Dean had cast before they left.

This is life, Seamus thinks. He can't remember ever feeling so relaxed, just lying in the hot sand, enjoying the beautiful day. The water lulls him to sleep, gentle waves rolling in a steady rhythm. There must be some kind of job where one can do this every day. He'd give up the goblins in a heartbeat.

He changes his mind when the sun descends and his skin starts to burn.

"I told you to use sun screen, or a charm, or lie in the shade," Dean says as he enters the room on the second floor of the small hotel, south of the ruins. It's simple but clean here, just two beds with the bathroom down the hall.

Seamus lies on his stomach on Dean's bed. His own bed is occupied by his empty backpack and its scattered contents. "This hurts. Can't you do anything?" he asks. He's suffering and annoyed by Dean's lack of compassion.

"Stop being a baby," Dean says. "It's just a sunburn, you're not about to die. "

"How do you know? I could overheat or something."

"And here I thought you've already got plenty of experience with overheating." Dean sits down next to him and pulls a small jar out of his backpack.

"You're not funny." Seamus eyes the jar. "What is this?"

"Potion. Mix of pain-relief, healing and relaxation. Can't believe I'm wasting it on you. It's meant for emergencies. Hold still."

The first contact is cold and Seamus flinches. But Dean's hands are big and warm and he feels himself relax as his skin stops burning. The smell is nice and he closes his eyes and hums. Dean rubs his back in gentle, slow circles and doesn't stop when the burn eases. The tension drains out of Seamus and he goes limp under Dean's hands. "Don't stop," he says, "'s brilliant." He doesn't know if it's himself or the potion speaking, but he doesn't care, it's _really_ nice.

"You like that?" Dean asks. "You like potion rubbed into your sunburned skin? That's special."

The goo is tingling and Dean's hands are warm and confident. Seamus feels languid and relaxed, can't be arsed to care about Dean's mocking. "I don't like the potion or sunburn part," he says with closed eyes. "Your hands feel good, though, really good. Could get used to that." The potion is messing with his head, Seamus thinks, but he's too relaxed to be bothered.

Dean's hands falter. "Erm, okay. That's... Yeah." He sounds confused. Seamus wiggles until Dean starts again. His back feels amazing and the feeling spreads into other body parts. Seamus feels himself harden, just from Dean's hands on his back, his lower back now. Seamus can't think of a reason why Dean's hands should be there, as the sunburn is on his shoulders, but he's not about to complain. He falls asleep before Dean is finished.

On the next day, there's a slight awkwardness, but it only lasts until breakfast. The confusion doesn't survive a heated discussion over who deserves more coffee. They are back in the comfortable zone of their easy friendship in no time at all and if Dean is looking strangely at Seamus sometimes, Seamus is very good at not noticing it. And if Seamus is looking strangely at Dean sometimes, Dean is very good at not mentioning it.

*

Mexican beer isn't too bad, Seamus decides. He's tried Corona, Dos XX, which Dean taught him is pronounced 'Dosh Eh Keys', and Sol that seems to be the hit of the season. Right now he's drinking Casta Morena, a smooth, dark ale that tastes a bit like home after too many pale lagers. It must be his fifth, at least, but Seamus doesn't count, and it's probably for the better.

He looks up into the sky and tries to see some of the stars they saw above Tulúm. But they are back in Mexico City and here in the backyard of the gallery, there is only the typical big city sky with the occasional white spot above. It's nothing compared to what they saw on the second night on the beach, the night when they didn't have to stay inside because Seamus fell asleep with Dean's hands on him. He sits with his back against the brick wall and pulls his knees to his chest.

He knows that it's not normal that he missed Dean so much that he came half across the world looking for him. It's also not normal that he ditched his gorgeous girlfriend, that the only time when he doesn't feel like either loneliness, anger, or some other stray emotion is trying to choke him is when he's together with Dean, or that whenever he closes his eyes he sees dark symbols forming intricate patterns. He's going mad. Except that he isn't. He hasn't felt so sane in a long time.

It doesn't make any sense. Not after all these years. He bangs his head against the wall behind him, but that pain makes anything better is just a fairy tale. In reality it just hurts.

"Is that really necessary?" he asks no one in particular. "Lavender's a great girl. I like her. And Parvati likes Dean. So where's the problem? Just leave us alone and we'll sort it out." He doesn't know who he's talking to, but feels the need to find someone who's guilty. "You know, you're not doing me a favour here."

"Whom are you talking to?" Alfonso is standing in the doorframe, looking down at him. Seamus has never talked to the man alone, not since the first day when he asked him if Dean was there.

"No one."

"Good conversation?" It's the same mocking tone Alfonso always uses when he addresses Seamus.

"Terrific."

"You know, if you want me to go back inside you just have to tell me."

Seamus looks up at him and is very close to telling him to fuck off. "No, no, it's okay. Sit down, have a beer."

Alfonso sits down and opens one of the bottles. "How do you like it here?"

"'S nice. The weather is better than at home." Seamus is better at drinking than at small talk, he thinks.

"You came for the weather, eh?"

"Aye, why else would I've come?" Seamus runs his hand through his hair and takes a swig from his bottle. There's something about the conversation he doesn't like. Maybe it's the way Alfonso is looking at him, or the always present smirk on his face.

"You were very interested in our conversation."

"Which conversation?" Seamus asks, but he can guess which conversation Alfonso is talking about. "Spit it out, Al."

"The one in the kitchen last week. I saw you. It's rude, eavesdropping."

"I wasn't eavesdropping. Why didn't you say something if you knew I was there?" Seamus pushes his back against the wall to keep himself from moving, he's getting more and more irritated.

Alfonso shrugs, he seems unconcerned. "Maybe I wanted to see your reaction." He drinks and then stands up. That was a quick conversation, Seamus thinks, but would rather bite off his tongue than ask him to stay. "Why don't you just go back to Ireland and leave Dean in peace. There's a reason why he left his home and you behind. He wants something you don't want to give him, so stop making his life miserable."

"Why don't you fuck off, Alfonso, and suck someone's cock?" Seamus says casually. "It keeps you from talking bullshit."

Alfonso's smirk freezes on his face and Seamus takes an unhealthy amount of pleasure from it.

*

The beer tastes stale, the tacos like cardboard and the music is far too loud. They are in the little bar down the street, the light dim over their table in the corner. Seamus has no problem spotting Alfonso's hand on Dean's thigh, though. Ever since their little talk two days earlier, Alfonso seems to do nothing but trying to get his hands on Dean.

Seamus doesn't know what they're up to, but Dean is playing right along. He's laughing, flirting, he's making eyes at the Mexican git and Seamus seethes. He orders a second beer before the first one is even empty.

"Looking tense, amigo." Alfonso is grinning at him.

"Indigestion," Seamus answers. "It's the food."

"He has always been this funny?" Alfonso asks Dean. Seamus wonders when they decided to sit so close together that their shoulders are touching. It's ridiculous.

"Nope, he has improved considerably since school," Dean answers. He's grinning

The words sting. It hurts that Dean is making fun of him together with this stranger. That's not how Seamus envisioned his holiday. Everywhere he looks are strange conversations, confusion, black ink, hands, and fucking Alfonso touching Dean. Seamus finishes his beer and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He has lost track of the conversation and when he looks up, Dean is laughing at something Alfonso said, a full, throaty laugh, the one that shakes his whole body. Seamus can't remember when Dean laughed like that at something he said the last time. He can't remember either why it should matter.

He knows he should go before he says or does something he'll regret. All the buttons he didn't even know he possesses have been pushed. It's enough.

Unfortunately Dean chooses this moment to excuse himself for a minute and wanders off into the direction of the loo.

There are a couple of minutes of awkward silence before Alfonso smirks at Seamus and leans across the table towards him. "Why don't you just go back to the flat and have a nice, early night? We'll entertain ourselves. Oh, and don't wait up for him, he'll be home late."

Alfonso doesn't even have the time to blink before Seamus closes his hand around his throat in a tight grip, hauls him off his chair and slams him with his back against the wall. "Keep your hands off him, fecking arsehole." Alfonso chokes and Seamus grins at him, adrenalin making his blood boil. "He's mine. Comprende?" There's a strangled sound coming from Alfonso and Seamus lets go, looking at the angry red marks on his neck in satisfaction. He turns just in time to see Dean staring at him.

Other patrons are looking at him as well and a big man who has been standing behind the bar until then, is making his way over. Seamus throws a few pesos on the table, winks at Alfonso and leaves the pub. He can hear Dean calling after him, but he doesn't stop and pretends not to hear it. The night is dark and cool as he walks back to the flat. It clears his head. Some day he should work on getting his temper under control. Not today, though, today it felt really good.

Dean arrives only a few minutes later. "What the hell, Seamus?" Dean asks calmly. Seamus can't understand why he never gets angry. It's unnatural. "What was that?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing? Are you joking? You tried to throttle him."

Seamus glares at Dean. "I didn't. He'll survive it." Dean is shaking his head. "Oh come on, he deserved it," Seamus says.

The couch isn't made for two grown men, it is small and shabby, but Dean squeezes in next to Seamus anyway. "You realise that we're staying in his brother's flat, that he's given me a job, that he's a nice person and that I like him as a friend?"

Seamus snorts.

Dean sighs and puts his hand on Seamus's thigh. "Seriously, what's up?"

Seamus looks at the hand and wants to say _'That'_. Instead he lets his head fall on the backrest of the couch and looks sideways up at Dean.

"Why did you leave?" Seamus asks out of the blue.

"You kind of ruined the mood. Nothing worth staying for. The barkeep wasn't happy with us either."

Seamus shakes his head. "That's not what I meant. When you left home, why did you go?"

"What's that got to do with anything?"

"Humour me." Seamus puts his hand over Dean's and squeezes.

Dean looks at him for long moments, then mirrors his pose and sinks back into the couch, his head on the backrest. "Told you about Ted, didn't I? Professor Lupin's wife's father. When we were together, out there in the woods, we talked about what would be after the war." Dean's voice is calm, he looks at the ceiling, but his eyes are unfocused. "The things we'd do, what we missed so far, what we should make better, stuff like that. He told me about his daughter and his wife, I told him about my family and friends, he told me how much he wanted to see his grandson grow up, I told him about everything I wanted to do and see and what I want to be. I always thought that if I could just make it out of those damn woods alive, I'd have an endless amount of time. Y'know? I thought if the war was over and you and me survived, then the rest would be just fucking sunshine."

Dean is silent and Seamus turns his head to look at Dean properly. "And there was no sunshine? I remember me shining a lot."

Dean chuckles. "There was quite a bit of sunshine, actually. But that list of things I wanted to do after the war, the things I told Ted about. When I got sick I had accomplished one bloody thing. Five years since the war was over and I had almost nothing. My job was boring, I had no girlfriend," Seamus snorts but Dean only gives him a dirty look, "I hadn't seen any of the places I wanted to see." He hesitates. "I hadn't drawn anything in years. I think I realised that even with no war and no running and hiding, it still can all be over tomorrow. And when I die, I don't want to be left with a list full of things I never did. In that hospital room, I figured there's no time like the present. So I went."

Seamus nods. It makes sense. "That's the only reason why you left?"

Dean only nods but doesn't move his hand.

"What was the one thing you'd done?"

"Shared a flat with you."

"Aw. That's so sweet. I'm getting shiny eyes," Seamus says. He's teasing.

"Sod off."

Dean is still looking up at the ceiling and Seamus is still looking at him, now leaning sideways against the couch's back. The situation feels tense, but not uncomfortable. Seamus has drunk just enough to slide one hand across Dean's belly, let it rest on his waist and tug him a bit closer.

Dean obviously has drunk just enough that he doesn't mention it, but Seamus can see his eyes widen.

"So. Alfonso, he wasn't worth staying for?" Seamus asks, picking up something Dean said earlier.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just checking." Seamus suspects that the Wrackspurts are flying again - or whatever they do. He feels light-headed and for some reason he feels bold. With the hand on Dean's waist he pushes up the shirt and finds bare skin. He runs his thumb back and forth, barely touching him.

"You don't like Alfonso, do you?" Dean asks. His voice sounds a bit off.

Seamus laughs quietly. "I like him plenty, considering that he's a self-centred, arrogant, advantage-taking arsehole."

"How did you figure that out?" Dean's throat keeps working even when he's not talking. Seamus is inching closer, moves his hand up Dean's torso until it's high on his side, just beneath the pit of his arm.

"He's all over you." He talks quietly now, his lips almost brushing Dean's ear.

Dean is shivering. "Is that the reason you attacked him?"

"Didn't attack him. It was self-defense." He's rubbing his nose against Dean's cheek.

"Seamus? What are you doing?"

"I have no feckin' clue what I'm doing," he says with his lips touching Dean's ear. "I hoped you were the expert here." He tugs at Dean's earlobe gently with his teeth, sucks it into his mouth and runs his tongue up the shell. He didn't lie, Seamus doesn't know what he's doing, but he doesn't stop to think about it either.

"You'll regret this," Dean tries to reason, and Seamus knows that he's probably right. It doesn't stop him from dipping his tongue into Dean's ear. He's needy and he can tell from the way Dean is almost shaking that he wants it, too. So why not? Maybe it's time to find out what exactly is happening. Maybe they can get it out of the system and move on.

"Show me that it's worth it, Dean." He kisses Dean's temple and drags his lips over one eyelid and his nose.

Dean groans and leans into Seamus's touch. "This is not how it works," he says, but belies his words as he turns his head and Seamus's lips slide to the corner of his mouth. Dean's lips are soft and lush and Seamus takes his time to kiss the spot where they meet and then slowly moves until his mouth is covering Dean's.

His free hand is on the back of Dean's neck now, pulling him closer, increasing the pressure between them. Seamus tilts his head a bit more and sweeps his tongue over Dean's bottom lip, uses his teeth to bite softly. Dean gasps and opens his mouth, which Seamus takes as an invitation to run his tongue along Dean's teeth and finally slip it inside. The first taste is intoxicating and becomes even more so when Dean starts to kiss back. They move together now, open mouths sliding wetly against each other. Seamus is caught somewhere between the soft strokes of Dean's tongue and the rough scratch of his stubble. What was left of his control slips sideways and falls out of the picture altogether.

When Dean tugs on his shirt, he lifts his arms, and when Dean pulls off his own shirt, Seamus ducks his head and licks one dark nipple. He kisses Dean's throat, sucks on his shoulders, traces the edges of black ink on his upper back with his fingertips. There's a sharp hiss when he closes his lips over a collarbone and bites, and a low moan when he soothes the red mark with his tongue.

Dean opens the flies of Seamus's trousers and runs his fingers from one side of his lower belly to the other. Seamus arches his back, the skin there is oddly sensitive and he likes to be touched, wants more of it. But he doesn't want to do it here on the too small couch, sitting next to each other.

He catches Dean's wrist and stops his hand. Dean freezes and stutters an apology, but Seamus hushes him and gets up. "Come on, let's do this properly." He pulls Dean up as well and drags him to the bedroom. They pause in the doorway to share a hungry kiss with Seamus cursing as his hands find Dean's arse and he pulls and grabs and _holds_.

Three more steps and Dean pushes him none too gently on the bed, tugs off his denims before Seamus has a chance to take a breath. By the time he can tear his eyes away from the play of muscles in Dean's shoulders, Seamus is already naked. It's too late to be embarrassed now, no matter how hard and flushed and dishevelled he looks. Dean doesn't seem to mind, though. His eyes are dark and he's watching Seamus hungrily, motionless, except for his hands that are undoing his own jeans.

Seamus swallows, watches as Dean strips slowly. He knows it's a test of some sorts, but if Dean thinks he's going to run, he'll be in for a surprise. Seamus pushes himself up into a sitting position, waits just long enough until Dean steps out of his pants and then puts both hands on the back of his thighs - Dean's very ungirly, muscled thighs, covered with dark hair. His hands move upwards, pause when he can feel the swell of Dean's buttocks and Seamus only realises that he closed his eyes when he has to make a real effort to open them again.

"Holy Mother of God," he mutters when he finally looks. He's sure that he'll go to hell for saying it while his face is only inches away from a hard cock. It might just be worth it.

"Seamus, I don't think this is a good idea," Dean protests one last time, but his voice is too low to mean it and he hasn't moved an inch.

"Shut up, Thomas, you've never been good at thinking."

Seamus tightens the grip of his hands and pulls him closer until his nose and lips are touching what should be familiar, but is strange and alien on someone else. Dean still doesn't move, but Seamus can feel the tension in his thighs and he's trembling. Seamus hesitates for a second. This is so very new territory, and maybe he should have tried touching him before putting his mouth on Dean's bits. But it's mainly his brain talking, the rest of his body is delighted by the idea. "It's okay, just let me try this." Dean jumps as Seamus mouths the words directly into the soft skin at the base of his cock.

There's no thought after that.

The smell keeps him captivated as he takes Dean into his mouth. He does it slowly. It's sloppy and wet, he's lacking technique, but he can see Dean losing his constant calm and Seamus is hit with the same fierce possessiveness he felt in the bar. It doesn't matter that he accidentally uses his teeth, or that he gags when Dean's hips jerk, or that it's more salty than he's used to, but it does matters that Dean is moaning, that he's clutching Seamus's shoulders so tight that it's almost painful and that Seamus can't remember when he's ever been that turned on.

He sucks, licks, kisses and he lets go with one hand to cradle Dean's balls, tug lightly and press against the sensitive spot behind them. Just because he's never been in this particular position, doesn't mean he has no experience. He knows what feels good.

Dean has his hands in his hair and when he starts pulling hard, Seamus knows why he's doing it. But he doesn't stop. He wants everything. And he gets it, warm and bitter on his tongue with Dean shaking and swearing and saying his name again and again.

He pulls back when he feels Dean relax, his own body still thrumming with lust and need. Without consciously moving his hands, he grabs his own cock and wanks, falling back down on the bed. But Dean tugs on his wrist and pulls his hand away. "Don't you dare. Just give me a sec."

Seamus whines, but waits for what feels like days and then moves in the middle of the bed when Dean tells him to. And then Dean is looming over him, his body more massive than it should be, there's a hand in his hair and one on his hip, there's a thigh between his legs and Dean kisses him as if Seamus wasn't already close to passing out.

Seamus has always been the stronger and bigger one in bed, has always liked to take control and was better at giving than receiving. It's different this time. Dean has pinned him down and his hands are big and strong. There's nothing tentative about him, the kiss is just this side of aggressive and Seamus can't do anything but clutch at Dean's back like a drowning man and rut against Dean's thigh.

It shouldn't be as intense as it is. Seamus breaks the kiss because his breath got lost somewhere and presses his face against Dean's neck, panting. His hands wander down and he finds Dean's arse again. Dean shifts and Seamus wants to protest, but then there's a hand on his cock, stroking him. Seamus is overwhelmed, feels Dean all around him, over him and he comes with a low cry, completely taken over.

*

The light in the room is still dim when Seamus wakes up. He remembers what happened and he wishes he could have been drunk the night before and blame it on the alcohol. They had... _Mary and Jesus_, they had. And it was his fault. He doesn't dare to move, he's too afraid that Dean might wake up and he needs more time to sort himself out before he faces him. It's not too late to fix this.

Carefully he turns his head, watches Dean lying on his stomach, the sheets pushed down just below his hips. He's naked like Seamus and his dark skin seems to absorb the faint morning light that filters in through the window. He's beautiful. Seamus doesn't even try to deny it. Dean's eyes are closed and his face is relaxed. His dark lashes are resting on his cheeks, there's a shadow on his jaw and his lips form a small pout. Seamus traces the lines on Dean's back with his eyes, the symbols so mysterious and unknown. Seamus's fingers itch, partly from the desire to touch him, partly from the memory of the night. He knows how Dean's skin feels and he wants to touch it again, the way it is now, sleep-warm and gorgeous.

Seamus grows hard as he imagines moving his hands and lips down Dean's back, tasting the black ink, running his tongue along lines and curves. He imagines kissing Dean's smooth lower back and pushing the sheet further down, he wants to cup Dean's arse and _feel_ him. It's a small movement, he just has to reach out, just one touch and Dean will wake up and everything will be different. His hand is hovering over Dean's back before he knows it, but he snaps back to reality just in time and snatches his hand back. What the fuck is wrong with him?

Seamus nearly sobs with the strength of wanting and he knows that he needs to get up. He needs to get out of bed now.

Half an hour, three coffees and a very cold shower later, Seamus is standing in the kitchen and trying his best not to burn it down. There are toast and eggs and bacon in various stages of cooking.

Dean comes out of the bedroom, sleep-tousled, in only his boxers. Seamus throws another egg into the pan and thinks that it is fucking rude to flounce around nearly naked.

"Morning," Dean says, a small smile is playing around the corners of his mouth.

"Morning," Seamus answers.

Dean stays where he is in the doorframe and watches him. He's waiting for something. A frown appears on his face

"I'm sorry," Seamus says more harshly than he means to. "About yesterday. Y'know. My fault, I shouldn't have done that. Let's just forget about it." He gestures with his hands, mainly because he doesn't know what to do with them. "Didn't mean anything."

Seamus can see the moment when the words register. Dean's face turns to stone. "Wasn't worth it, then." The words are bitter, each of them stings. But it's Seamus's fault, he knows it.

Dean goes to the bathroom after a few moments of silence in which Seamus can't find a single word to answer him. He's in there for a long time and when he comes back, fully dressed, breakfast is cold.

"Listen, Dean, I didn't mean to-"

"You should go," Dean interrupts him, not looking at him when he says it.

Seamus is startled for a moment, but then nods. "Yeah, yeah, I know." The goblins scheduled a meeting with the Mexican branch of their bank when they heard he'd go to Mexico. The appointment is in less than an hour. "I'll come to the gallery later. We can go to the pub tonight."

Dean runs his hand over his head and laughs without any trace of happiness. "That's not what I meant." He looks at Seamus and something in Dean's eyes reminds him of Lavender. "Go home, Finnigan. Go back to London." Seamus can't remember a time when Dean called him by his last name. It's what hurts most.

*

When Seamus arrives in London, it's raining. He looks up into the clouds and feels the droplets of water running down his face and soaking his clothes. It figures, he thinks. He walks down Diagon Alley slowly. It's deserted, people don't run down the streets in rainy weather when they can apparate or floo. It's a shame, the rain is warm and feels nice.

There's only one time he remembers that he had a real fight with Dean. It was in his sixth year, when Dean made the Quidditch team. Seamus wanted to be a Chaser as well, but Dean was better. The decision was correct, but that didn't mean that Seamus acted mature about it.

"Seamus, don't be a prig."

"I'm not a prig," Seamus said through clenched teeth.

"Come on mate, it's not a big deal."

Seamus was thumbing through a Quidditch magazine and didn't look up. He knew he was being ridiculous, but he couldn't help himself. Sure, Dean wasn't a bad flyer, but Seamus wasn't bad either. He'd flown since he'd been able to walk, first with his mam, then on his own broom. He'd known how to fly before Dean even knew that brooms could be used for more than sweeping.

He threw the magazine into the corner of the room and glared at Dean. "Don't think I don't know why Potter didn't choose me." He spat the words, even though he didn't believe them, not really. But the anger was burning and if he didn't get it out he might explode. "He's still pissed that I didn't believe him. I apologised for what I said last year, but he's still angry. That's why he chose you. A few years back you didn't even know that Quidditch existed." Seamus was yelling at the top of his voice and the fact that Dean didn't yell back just made it worse. "It's not fucking fair."

Dean shook his head and turned around. He opened the door and looked back over his shoulder. "You know that's not true. It's just you being a resentful prat. I'll come back when you've calmed down."

Seamus calmed down soon enough, it was typical for his temper. It rose easily, but just as easily settled down again. He doesn't think that it will be that easy this time.

He thinks about flooing Lavender, but he can't muster enough courage to do it, doesn't want to fall back into old patterns either. And just because he's obsessed with Dean's arse doesn't mean he forgot Lavender's tits.

He runs into her two weeks after he's back. After some awkward small talk, they say good-bye again, parting and going into different directions. It's ridiculously symbolic.

*

It's eating him up inside and driving him insane. He can't sleep, he makes mistakes at work and he's becoming a hermit.

It's been a month since Seamus came home. He hasn't heard a word from Dean, no postcard arrived. He knows that he's made a huge mistake, but he's starting to realise that the mistake wasn't kissing Dean. He thinks about kissing Dean almost as often as he's thinking about touching him. He wants to throw an arm around Dean's shoulder, nudge him, hug him, and God help him, he wants to hold his hand. And there are the other dreams; dreams about dark skin and darker lines, about symbols and ink and artwork he can lick and taste. He shakes his head. He has no idea how long it will take until he's going to snap.

The house is familiar and looks as if nothing has changed in the last years. Seamus hasn't lived here in a long time, and yet it is home. It will always be. Home is the blue front door and the patch where the paint is gone; it's the white windows with the frilly curtains he has always hated. Home is the neatly trimmed grass and the swing in the garden that no one has used since Seamus was ten years old and declared himself too old for it. And home is also apple pie, stew and the smell of his mother's hugs.

He grins as he knocks on the door.

The greeting is familiar. His mother is trying to suffocate him with a hug, tells him that he's looking too thin, ushers him inside, scolds him for coming home not often enough, sits him down at the kitchen table and makes some strong coffee. He tells her about work, about life in London, trivial things. She tells him news from the small town. It's good to be home.

"Do you want another coffee, or are you ready to tell me?" she asks after a while.

"Both," he decides, although until now he hasn't known that there is something he wants to tell her.

It takes a few minutes before she fills his cup with the steaming liquid and sits down again. He has time to gather his thoughts, but doesn't think that it does any good.

"It's Dean," he finally says.

"Is he back?"

"No, not yet." He runs his hand through his hair and she looks at him curiously.

"What about him? I know you were visiting him. You had a good time, I reckon?"

He raises an eyebrow. He told her about the trip earlier. "Aye, 'course I did."

"And?"

"A very good time, actually. Pretty damn good." He looks briefly up from his cup. "Until I bolted because it was getting a bit too good."

She only nods.

"Mam?"

"Why would you run away because something is too good?"

"Don't make me spell it out. You know what I mean."

"It doesn't matter if I know what you mean, Seamus." He doesn't like that she's being so vague. "But if something is good, you don't let it go easily."

That's the point, though, it's not easy at all. "I just don't know. I've never fit in. I'm a wizard in a town full of Muggles, a halfblood in the wizarding world, the only Irishman in my year. I piss off everyone I know, people get sick of me left and right. And then, when the war is over and I finally start settling in with a job, a girlfriend, friends, a place I live, everything goes upside down and inside out. I'm just sick and tired of all the fighting. I've had enough war. Give me a boring life and I'll be happy. I don't want any of this. I don't like confusion and _things_."

When he looks up he can see an amused smile around her mouth. "That girl of yours..."

"What girl?" Seamus interrupts irritated, thrown off guard by her changing the topic.

"The one with the scars."

Seamus glares at his mother. "We all have scars," he says hotly. "I'm sick of listening to people talking shit about her. She's not a Werewolf, and even if she were, she'd still be a great person and she's fucking beautiful." There. That made him feel better.

His mother smiles at him. "Are you sure that you don't want to fight anymore, Seamus?" He slumps back in his chair. "Stop lying to yourself."

"It runs in the family." He says it to provoke her. If she gets angry, he can leave in a huff.

She surprises him again, though. "It does. But it's never got us anywhere, so we might as well stop."

 

On a rainy November day, Dean finally comes back. One moment, Seamus sits on the couch and reads a Quidditch magazine, the next moment he opens the door and stares at Dean who seems to be not as angry as he should.

"Took your time, mate," Seamus says and steps away from the door to let him in.

"Good to see you, too," Dean answers and comes inside. "What's up?" he asks without preamble.

He looks good, Seamus thinks. His tan is even darker now, his shoulders are still broad, and even though Seamus knows that he's imagining it, Dean looks as if he has grown another inch or two. He wants to tell him that he missed him, that he's glad that he's back and that he hopes that he's going to stay. The words are somehow stuck in his throat. "Tea?" he asks instead, because it's what Dean would do.

"Yeah, sounds good." Dean sits down at the kitchen table and looks around. "Looks almost the same here."

Seamus remembers that Dean hasn't been here in more than twenty-one months. "Yeah. I didn't change much." He resists asking him when he's going to move back in.

Tea is made quickly and soon they both have a cup of steaming Earl Grey and are sitting on opposite sides of the small table. Dean painted it red with a complex black pattern after they'd moved in.

"So?" Dean prompts.

Seamus clings to his cup of tea and takes a deep breath. "Well. There's this thing, you see."

Dean doesn't seem to see, he just keeps looking. Seamus scratches the back of his neck and curses himself for not rehearsing this. "My thing. For you." He's stuttering and drinks some tea.

"And because of this thing," Seamus waves his hands and cringes at his clumsy words. But he fucked up good and proper and embarrassing himself is the least he can do. "Because of this thing, I thought we could maybe go somewhere. Out. Together. Like on a date." He exhales and mutters a thank you that he said the words. Then he raises his head and looks at Dean. He's waiting for an answer.

Dean's expression changes from amusement to shock in an instant. "You... What?" His voice is about an octave higher than usual.

"A date." Seamus doesn't know where to look at. He's been so sure of himself, wasted so much time finding out what it is that he wants, that maybe now it's too late. And Dean is still gaping at him. "Dunno. Quidditch and dinner and stuff. Whatever you want." Something occurs to him. "Except dancing."

"A date?" Dean asks. "You're taking the piss."

It isn't the reaction Seamus hoped for, or even one he thought was possible. "I'm not joking," he says. "Just spit it out if you don't want to." Seamus drinks from his tea again and wishes it would transfigure itself into Firewhisky.

"It's not that. It's just... A date?" Dean says yet again. Maybe Seamus should have drawn a picture to make it clearer. "In public?" His expression tells Seamus that it's the last thing he expected.

"I wrote you a card, didn't I? What did ye think that meant?"

Dean shrugs. "That you want to fuck me and either run away again or keep me as your dirty little secret." He says it casually.

It feels like a kick in the gut. Seamus knows he deserves it. He gets up and opens the fridge. Tea doesn't cut it, not by a long shot. He gets out two beers, pops them open with his wand and passes one to Dean. "So why did you come?"

Dean takes the bottle and looks at him. "I don't think you want to know."

Seamus averts his eyes and takes a swig. He clears his throat before he asks, "What's your answer, then?"

Dean shakes his head, drinks as well and laughs softly. "There better be flowers."

*

El Fin

 

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

translations:

Póg mo thóin (Gaelic) - Kiss my arse

Bienvenido - Welcome   
Buenos días, [] busco una galería de arte. - Good morning, I'm looking for an art gallery.   
Comprende? - Do you understand?   
Dime, qué pasa. - Tell me, what's up?   
Gracias - Thank you   
Lo siento - I'm sorry   
obras de - works of   
Soy Alfonso, le puedo ayudar en algo - I'm Alfonso, how can I help you?   
Te entiendo perfectamente. - I understand you perfectly   
Mentiroso - Liar   
 


End file.
